Untitled playlist

damn this heart by Corey Kent

You left your hoodie in my Civic again
Still smells like chlorine and unsaid things
I watched the moths attack my porch light
And thought, yeah, that’s probably love

Your voicemail's just a sigh and two seconds of wind
I saved it anyway

I built a shrine from Busch Light cans and dead cassette tape
Tuned my heart to open D and watched it snap
You always said I cared like a forgotten state
So I drew your name in dust on the welcome mat

There’s an opossum in the gutter again
He’s got your stare and my old shoes
I tried to name him something tragic
But he just hissed and chewed through the past

Every love song sounds like dial-up now
Just waiting for it to connect

I built a drum from all our shared anxieties
Kicked it gently ‘til my ankle cracked
You told me once that grief’s a Midwestern breeze
Soft, humid, and impossible to track

I carved our breakup date into a pizza box
Then used it as a sled on your old hill
Your dad saw me, said, “she’s not coming back, bud”
I just nodded and slid straight into the creek

All my flannel shirts are starting to molt
I guess I am too

I wrote our names in ketchup on a paper plate
Left it out for raccoons and abstract fate
You were always better at abstract things
Like feelings, and taxes, and how not to wait

And if I call you from the Kwik Trip payphone
Don’t pick up — just let it ring
I’ll leave a whisper in the static
Something small. Something Midwest. Something with wings.

The corn is listening, anyway
And so’s your cat, probably

I stacked old zines like bricks around my grief
Lit 'em up with a Bic and some unsent tweets
You always knew how to say things sweet and bleak
I just mumble in 3/4 time and leave


We Only Cuddle During Tornado Warnings

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Untitled playlist

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